


Paramour

by Merkey666



Series: Fourth of Shit [4]
Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Comfort, Hallucinations, Illnesses, Insomnia, It's not all awful I promise, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Paramour Mansion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 18:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11407686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merkey666/pseuds/Merkey666
Summary: Mikey is forced to leave Paramour due to health issues. Instead of going to rehab or anywhere else that would be a good idea, he goes to someone he hasn't spoken with in years. And yet Pete welcomes him anyway.





	Paramour

**Author's Note:**

> I can't take anything I write seriously because I come up with the worst titles,,, like this was originally called "2006 is WILD LMAO" do you see my problem here
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the final installment of the Fourth of Shit series.

“Mikey, you need to go,” Gerard had said. “You need to get better, not feel alone and terrified everyday. You’re not well right now, and neither am I. That’s why I’m telling you, you need to go.” 

“Just for a little while?” 

“As long as it takes, Mikey.”

So, Mikey packed up all of his things from around the mansion where they were strewn. He had no control over when he looked over his shoulder, or when those horrendous cold chills swept him, making his bones chatter. He felt helpless as he shoved his things into his bags, every so often acting out and jumping or flinching so violently that he hit the walls. He shook like he was freezing during all manners of the day, regardless of temperature or room. The frantic way his eyes moved, like when he looked down a hallway, he expected to see someone who wasn’t really there. He would stop talking for days on end, only piping up to help write a piece of music or something of the sort. However, his spasms were truly the worst. It wasn’t just panic attacks anymore, and while those were mutilating to him, he was sure the spasms were just a reminder of his constant paranoia. It could happen when his shaking got especially bad, when he couldn’t type or play bass, or even hold a glass of water. Then the spasms would hit. It was a mix of panic attack, only it was so much worse. He would just collapse and jolt around, and Gerard had thought it was seizures for a while. His entire body would convulse and if anyone tried to touch him, an elbow would nail them. His head would jolt finely, like some form of tick, and then all of the sudden it would pass. And Mikey would say he was tired and go lay down. The period in which he’d lay down became longer and longer as their time at Paramour Mansion grew. When he came to the point where there were days he didn’t feel comfortable getting out of bed or leaving his room, which was really Gerard’s room, Gerard drew the line. Mikey wasn’t getting sleep, enough to eat, and he wasn’t safe. He was breaking down. And while Gerard knew he shouldn’t, he sometimes read what Mikey wrote on the sticky-notes he stuck to the walls in the room that no one spoke about.

It was one room, dark mostly. It had each and every wall covered with sticky notes, or sometimes the words were straight on the grey walls in pen. Gerard had ripped down his section a number of times, as his contained phrases that he soon got sick of, or chords that make his breath freeze in his lungs. He wasn’t one to say that what was happening to Mikey was a one-man problem, because he’d become aware of the way the walls moved and the voices that screamed in the middle of the night too. But he had been through it before, and he was sober. Mikey was not. When Gerard came across a sticky note on Mikey’s wall that read,

“I think I may try to kill myself,”

Gerard had had enough. Never once did he speak of the sticky notes as he gently coerced Mikey into leaving, but the message was there. Mikey had known for a long time that he was ill, violently so, but he hadn’t had the nerve to try and do anything about that. Leaving meant more than a safe place to fall asleep, it meant rehab. It meant coming to terms with everything that was going on with him, and Mikey was much more afraid of himself than he was of the voices that told him to commit suicide. But when Gerard stopped him and told him that he needed to leave, he knew it was time to go. 

So, Mikey gathered up everything he had, from room to room, and left without a word. The taxi that awaited him in front was prepaid, courtesy of Gerard, and probably already set to take him to rehab. Mikey watched the little black cab from the front steps for several minutes before walking down to the car. The man helped Mikey set his bags in the trunk, and then drove down the gravel path with Mikey in the back seat.

“Son, are you quite alright? If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like the devil,” the man said, the cigarette in his mouth distorting his words. Mikey looked up into the rearview mirror and couldn’t help but agree. He had never seen such massive bags under his eyes, the very same eyes that had no life to them. Once brown and sunshine-y, they were now bleak and possibly grey. There was something lifeless about the way he stared, so silent and lost. All of his features looked radically exaggerated, since he wasn’t sure he’d eaten an entire meal. The kitchen was probably the scariest place of all, next to his old bedroom. His cheekbones were higher on his face than he remembered him, and his lips were white and chapped. His skin seemed loose on his face, and his already skinny face seemed to be sucked in around his mouth, like all his skin there was barely hanging on. Seeing something as petrifying as that probably would’ve coerced Mikey into leaving sooner, but he never knew what he looked like. He hadn’t for quite a while. Frank smashed all the mirrors, claiming he say something behind him that wasn’t there. 

Mikey looked down at his hands, still shaking in fear. His long fingers looked spindly and all color on his skin, he realized, was gone. He was as pale as a corpse, which was fine to him, since he felt like one. His teeth chattered in his mouth, and his toes furled and unfurled on the drive to rehab, feeling steadily more and more anxious. Gerard wanted him there, he reminded himself. The scars that were all over his body were reminders enough, but they didn’t seem to do it anymore. He traced over some on his wrists, and closed his eyes. Warm, fresh tears spilled down his cold face. He was used to crying with no prevocation, it happened all the time at the mansion. He would be walking down the grand, wooden halls, and all of the sudden he’d be against them, chill to the bone, sobbing. Was there supposed to be something soothing about being outside, out of the mansion? If there was, Mikey wasn’t feeling it. 

He could still hear the screams that woke him in the nights, still feel the cold wind that met him whenever he was alone, and he still saw his wall of notes that lingered in the dark, waiting for his next breakdown. He should’ve known what was going to happen, long before it did. Mikey didn’t want to go to rehab, he wanted to get better. He wanted people that weren’t afraid to walk to their rooms alone, he wanted to not be afraid to walk to his room alone- Mikey sighed and sat back. He didn’t want to be afraid anymore. 

“Turn left,” Mikey mumbled.

“Sir? You’re supposed to be going to-”

“I know, and I said turn left. I’ll pay you the proper fare, just please-” Mikey’s voice broke and he struggled to regain it. “-turn left.” The driver sent a worried look back, but turned on his blinker regardless. Mikey did not look out any of the windows, not once. He listened to his breath, watched his body calm down, knowing he was going to be safe where he was going. He watched as a ray of sunlight his hands on his lap, as the driver asked for the next direction. The sunshine didn’t leave until the driver pulled the car to a stop outside of a small house in the suburbs.

Mikey dumped out his pockets and handed the driver a twenty, stumbling out of the car. The driver collected his bags and handed him the change, but Mikey refused. He wanted to get rid of everything, and people kept on handing it back. The cab drove away, and Mikey sat down on the curb for quite some time. One bag blew over in the breeze, and the rush of air around him hit home with how shallow his breaths were. He needed rehab, but he wasn’t ready yet. More time at Paramour wasn’t going to make him ready, it was going to make him dead. He needed a grace period.

With the few shreds of strength he possessed, Mikey pulled himself up and wandered over to the front steps, a bag in each hand. He swallowed dryly and dropped one bag to free his hand. His slammed his open palm against the hard wooden door, and watched the condensation on his palm drag down the door. A child screamed in the distance, and his froze. He hit his hand against the door again, harder and more frantic. Someone flung the door open, staring aghast at Mikey. Mikey quivered and swayed for a moment, until the person reached out and caught him, just before he collapsed.

The man said nothing as he pulled Mikey inside, ignoring his condition entirely. He swung back to grab Mikey’s bags, before looking cautiously down the street and slamming the door in the world’s face. Mikey dropped onto the couch like a stone, eyes rolled back into his head and stoic. The man dropped the bags onto the floor and rushed to Mikey’s side. Sweat was beading on his forehead, magnifying the sickly colour of his skin. He almost looked bruised, the way his skin looked grey and lifeless. The man pulled his hair off of his forehead with a hand, and shook Mikey awake delicately. 

“Mikey? Mikey what happened to you?” The words seemed so far off to Mikey, who felt as though he was falling, falling far down. He could barely heard anything at that point, and the walls seemed to be closing around him. He couldn’t bring himself to alter his slow and debilitating heart rate. His fingers felt numb and fuzzy, like he was jacked up on novocaine. His head lolled around on his shoulders, and the last bits off light faltered out of his view. His eyelids shut. 

~

“Mikey? Mikey, oh God, Mikey. Are you there?” the man cried. Mikey felt a firm grasp on his wrist, two fingers pressed onto his vein. There was a violent gasp of relief as Mikey ticked his head to the side, and the shaking set back in. He wasn’t free yet. 

“Thank God,” the man whispered, craning down on Mikey, who was just barely opening his eyes. A tremor ran through his body, shaking him from head to toe. Everything hurt. Mikey felt a pillow prop up his head, a head that felt liquidy- as though his brain had been put through a blender. He didn’t dare open his eyes, not to see Paramour’s ceiling, nor to see anyone else. He wanted to be left alone.

“Mikey? Hey, it’s me.” Pete. “It’s Pete.” Mikey’s eyes rolle under their lids for a few moments before opening. It was Pete, smiling sympathetically at him, holding his wrist tightly. He was sure Pete could feel the scars that hadn’t been there last year. 

“You don’t have to say anything right now, Mikey. Rest, please. You passed out. Do you know where you are?” Pete asked quietly. Another chill shook Mikey to the bone, but he nodded to Pete anyway. It didn’t go unnoticed by either of them how Mikey shook with every breath he took, every move he made. For a moment, as Mikey looked in Pete’s eyes, widened by confusion and worry, he did not know where he was. But the strain on his eyes faded and the world came back into focus, and he nodded in affirmation. 

“Okay, great. I’m pretty damn confused right now, but you don’t have to answer anything right now. In fact, just take your time and rest. Is there anyone you want me to call? Gerard? Frank? A hospital?” Pete questioned. Mikey was well aware of the courtesy Pete was doing for him by not calling the cops immediately, or more likely, an ambulance, and was at a loss on how to make this better for him. He knew he needed help, badly. He just didn’t want it yet. 

Mikey shook his head and tried to release his tensed muscles, but the toil only got worse. Any looks he caught from Pete made him feel like a victim, and he didn’t want to feel any more sorry for himself than he already. His eyelids seemed to clatter shut, leaving him back in darkness and depression. Anything could reach him there. But he was so damn tired. 

“Okay, I’ll just leave you be then. I’m going to get you some Advil. Be right back,” Pete hushed. Mikey’s arm flung out and he caught Pete by the calf. Feeling alone was bad for Mikey’s condition, but what was worse on him were the times when he wasn’t so sure he was alone. Even then, out of the mansion, into the sunlight and sunset, he could feel the little wisps of smoky beings grappling to catch hold of him. The faceless people he saw around every corner could have followed him, and he didn’t want to find out. 

“Please don’t leave me,” Mikey whispered, choking up at the very state of his voice. It may have been the one thing he hadn’t noticed about himself in the taxi, but from such a time of muteness, his voicebox sounded crippled. Talking was one thing, but crying and talking was entirely too much for him. Pete got back down on his knees and pressed Mikey’s cold hand between the two of his. For a moment he looked like he was going to protest, but his expression softened and he plopped down on the floor and stared into Mikey’s wounded eyes. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, and in that case, Pete was looking weeks of relentless torment in the eyes.

“I would never,” he finally replied. 

There was a long bout of silence that followed afterwards, that mainly consisted of Mikey staring at the ceiling and squeezing his eyes shut when the flashbacks to Paramour began. There was some movie theatre playing in his head at all hours of the day, and he just wanted to turn it off. There was no remote in sight.

At long last, Pete sighed minutely and cracked his back. Mikey turned his head over to look at him, and only him. If someone were to have offered him some feasible way to delete his peripheral vision,he may just have done it at that moment. The daunting fear of seeing a blurry figure creep out of the shadowy backdrop frightened him more than anything that happened at Paramour.

“I assume you’re staying here, since I’m not sure you’d rather be here than a nice hotel or anything… You probably don’t want to sleep on the couch, so you can stay in the guest room, or…” Pete stopped himself. “I’ll fix up the guest room, if that’s what you want.” Mikey didn’t figure he’d be getting much of any sleep anywhere, no matter whose bed or house he was in. He nodded politely, not realizing that meant Pete would have to leave his side. Pete let go of his hands and turned away, letting his eyes linger on Mikey’s scarred forearm for a moment, before slipping down the hallway. 

The moment he was out of eyesight Mikey pulled out his headphones and plugged them into his iPod. Hearing noises didn’t help his chances of sleep, or anything else for that matter, and just closing his eyes wasn’t enough anymore. Seconds later, something grabbed his shoulder. He jolted away from the hand, throwing himself off of the couch and backing himself into the nearest corner. He shook to hell and back. Refusing to make eye contact, or even so much as look up, Mikey stared wide eyed at the floor. His breathing hadn’t caught up with his heart rate, leaving him winded and hyperventilating with his arms around him, throbbing. Pete looked over the situation gently, trying to decipher whether he really ought to call someone for him. 

He took a small step towards Mikey, then opted to take a knee instead. He crawled across the floor slowly, until he was sat across from him, a generous space in between them for Mikey to breathe. Before Mikey was forced to look at him, he shut his eyes and clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Mikey,” Pete began slowly. Mikey didn’t say a word in response, and Pete decided to leave it at that. He gently slid over a slip of paper, and then scooted himself back a tad farther, to give Mikey the adequate space he needed. Mikey seized up let out a long, slow breath- and then it was over. He let his legs fall out in front of him and he let his head hit the wall behind him. Pete had never felt more concerned for another being in his life, and after what Pete had gone through in his life, that meant something to him. 

Mikey looked at the paper on the ground in front of him and sighed again. It was a take-out menu. 

“How does pizza sound?” Pete intoned. 

~

While Mikey couldn’t be bothered to actually taste what he was eating, he was sure it was good. Not only had the pizza, which they had eventually ended up ordering, been scaldingly hot, his mind was also elsewhere. Or, he was trying to keep it elsewhere. Anywhere that wasn’t reminiscing was a good place. 

“So, where were you?” Pete asked with a mouthful of hot pizza he was trying not to burn his tongue on. “Before you came here, I mean. I heard somewhere that you guys were going to do a stint of some kind, but I never got to find out what it was.”

“I was staying with friends,” Mikey mumbled. The way his voice sounded reminded him of everything he was trying to forget, and while talking may have offered a solution to his wandering thoughts, he never was the type to story-tell. Pete took his lack of enthusiasm as a cue to stop talking, whether he got the answer he wanted or not. 

The rest of the meal went accordingly, since Mikey wasn’t being talkative and Pete wasn’t bossy enough to force it out of him. Mikey didn’t feel it was awkward, exactly, not that he was in any way a comfortable state of mind. Being around Pete felt natural, a blast from the past that he actually wanted to remember. He couldn’t be bothered enough to figure out if Pete felt the same way. He’d offered to let him stay for a bit, and that was enough. 

When most of the eating was done, not that Mikey partook in much of that, the home line rang. Mikey jumped and coughed on a sip of water, trying not let it come out of his nose. Pete sent him a weary look and went to pick up the phone regardless. At first, Mikey only pretended he didn’t notice how empty the room had become, and then he began to pretend he couldn’t hear Pete talking. Eavesdropping was better than silence to him.

“Yeah, hi. Not right now, Patrick. Yes, I know. I’m preoccupied right now. No, it’s nothing, it’s just…” Pete sent a quick glance over his shoulder and turned to face away from Mikey. Mikey stared intensely at the wooden table and grimaced. Eavesdropping was better than silence, and yet he still couldn’t bring himself to listen in on that bit of the conversation. He did hear the phone clatter back down onto the table, and Pete’s soft footsteps as he walked back over. Mikey wasn’t in the mood to bring it up, and Pete likely assumed Mikey had heard nothing at all. End of discussion. 

After their dinner ended, Pete didn’t know what to do. Mikey zoned out long before Pete felt lost and nothing could reach him there. Pete clicked on the tv and sat down on the couch, turning his body so he could see both the screen and Mikey. There was no word of haste as Pete wandered off, and that was not because Mikey did not notice. He saw everything around him, yet felt the layer of isolation around him. With his legs curled up around him and a steady stream of sound amidst the total silence of the house, he fell into a sort of trance, where he could feel a little bit less isolated. To him, it was almost like sleep, only without the nightmares. There hadn’t been a separation from the two since the “stint” at Paramour began. The haze he felt he was under was like an ocean around him and the surface was above him, but he was unable to reach it. Until he could.

Pete heard a clamour of chairs crashing and snapped his line of sight over to where Mikey had been. His chair was on the floor and he was out of sight, but the sounds were still there. The gagging noises Mikey made were heard throughout the house, even if there was only one other person to hear it. ‘Other’, being a generous term; Mikey himself couldn’t hear what guttural noises he was emitting, certainly not over the thrashing and ringing of sirens in his brain. 

When at last the urge to empty his stomach subsides and he finally caught a decent breath of fresh air, a hand reached out for him, and that time he didn’t jump. He didn’t even have the energy for that. A murmured kind word and a glass of water accompanied by a small assortment of pills were offered to Mikey. Not thinking about how any may interact with any medicines he was supposed to be on, he downed all of the pills and slowly drank down the glass of water. Pete helped him up off the bathroom floor once he stopped swaying like he was going to be sick again. Mikey barely caught himself when he lurched forward, but the static in his brain was gently being pulled back and he leveled. 

“Hey, come here, follow me,” Pete soothed. Mikey let Pete do the walking for him as he was gently set back down on the couch. Again, Pete ran a hand through Mikey’s hair and smiled softly at him. 

“Are you sure I shouldn’t be calling anyone? Does Gerard know where you are? What’s this sickness coming from, Mikes? If you’re ill I can bring you to a hospital, or wherever else you need to go. I’m trying not to demand anything of you, but I really would like to know what happened. Things weren’t perfect back… back then, but whatever is going on now is not how you should be spending your time. I want to help, Mikey.” Mikey couldn’t be sure as to why exactly Pete was keeping the words Warped Tour out of his mouth, but it was either to help himself or Mikey forget about it, and he wasn’t sure which was worse at the moment. Admittedly, their circumstances were very different, but if Pete didn’t have to deal with his past yet, then neither did he. 

“I’ll tell you when I need help,” Mikey responded weakly. 

~

Mikey watched Pete get drowsy and pass out on the couch, and he felt no shame in discretely nudging him awake with his foot whenever he saw the lights go out. All major panic attacks were averted by doing that, not that the state he was in was on a much better level. Still, when Pete finally had enough and said goodnight, he knew it was the beginning of a long night. It was a night he could’ve spent in rehab. Alone, healing, and pained while doing so, and he didn’t find himself much better off where he was instead. Alone, healing naturally, and mightily pained while doing so. The lights were on and branding burns onto the back of his eyes, yet no amount of pain was going him to turn them off. When he felt woozy, the lights flicked off for a second, and when they reappeared they were blue. Just like the one in his room at Paramour. He’d shake his head until the tears would wash away the delusion, until the lights were white and bright and burning his tampered eyes again. 

His upturned stomach did settle thanks to those mystery drugs Pete aided him with, but hunger set back in and pizza was not quite as appealing as it had been before. He walked into the kitchen, head low and headphones in, and rummaged through the cabinets. His hands found their way through the drawers until he found himself in the possession of a bowl, spoon, jug of milk, and box of cereal, none of which he could remember acquiring. Nonetheless, he sat himself down at the table, sitting in the chair closest to the wall, and began to pour the cereal into the bowl. He stared down into it like it was beckoning him closer, his eyelids drooping at the late hour. He couldn’t find a clock on the wall, so he took a guess that it was around midnight, not that he could be sure. Even with all the time he’d spent up at Paramour, finding himself in desolate areas of the mansion at God knows how early in the morning, when he couldn’t recall ever getting out of bed. 

He finished pouring the cereal and in turn poured the milk into the bowl. His spoon hit the ground, making only a small noise, but enough of one to make his ears sting. He capped the milk jug and picked it up, dusting it off on a napkin. 

“Mikey?” a sleepy looking Pete asked, stepping drearily into the doorway. “What are you doing up? It’s 1 am.” Mikey shrugged and looked back down into his cereal. Pete straightened up a little and crossed his arms casually, as one does. 

“Do you have insomnia?” Pete asked, quieter that time. 

“Yup,” Mikey replied, popping the p. 

“Oh.” Pete took a deep breath and decided internally that sleep wasn’t all that important after all. He walked into the dining room and sat down across from Mikey. Mikey said nothing during all of it, eating his cereal slowly. He leaned down over the table, resting his chin on his arms, and watching Mikey’s anxious behavior questioningly. 

“Are you going to tell me now?” Pete asked after a moment had passed. Night wasn’t the time Mikey wanted to recollect his memories, especially that set of bad ones. He knew it was probably a good step to take, as at night he often felt more talkative, and what better place to do so? Pete was practically family to him, although that hadn’t always been so wonderful in the past. Mikey was running out of time to not care, so instead he plainly nodded. Pete sat back and waited patiently.

“We’re staying at Paramour Mansion to write the next album. To get the… The right vibe, I guess. I dunno, it was Gerard’s idea so I went along with it. It was a bad idea for me, I'm still sick and it only got worse once we moved in. It's supposed to be haunted, and I took that to heart. My room was supposed to be the most haunted, and it had this weird blue light on the ceiling that just made it… eerie. And the furniture was all original supposedly, which made it dated and creepy as hell. Then people started reporting things, like doors slamming in their faces and, in Bob’s case, the bathtub in his bedroom filling itself with water. I lost sleep and from the sleep I did get, I’d wake up in desolate parts of the mansion, not remembering how I got there. And I never felt quite alone. Then the voices started, telling me things, scaring me, but it wasn't just voices in my head, it felt like they were out around me. Knocks on doors, nails raking up and down the walls, dogs barking at thin air. I started seeing things, figures in the backs of rooms, black spectral beings. Or just faces, grey, expressionless faces. Gerard said he had dreams of people he loved dying, but I didn't have dreams because I never slept. I don't see them here, but I’m too afraid to go looking for them. I'm just too… Tired,” Mikey said. Talking about it brought all of his fear rising to the surface, and once again he found himself not daring to look up. Not wanting to see something behind Pete. 

Pete made a small noise and then cleared his throat roughly, and Mikey thought it sounded like it hurt. Pete got off the chair and knelt down on the ground, looking up at Mikey. He had a firm grip on his leg, which Mikey looked at instead of his eyes. 

“I'm sorry,” Pete whispered grimly. 

“You didn't do anything. You don't have to be sorry,” Mikey refrained from raising the lump in his throat. 

“I know. But sometimes it's good to get an apology in anyway, right? Sometimes that makes it feel a little better.”

“Sometimes,” Mikey mumbled. Pete raised a hand and gently raised Mikey’s face as to look him in the eyes. 

“Do you accept my apology?” Pete asked. Mikey gulped and nodded slowly. That brought and smile to Pete’s face, but the terror behind his eyes was still there. Mikey could still see the worry and pity, only then it was folded over and hidden. But it was still there. 

“Okay,” Pete grinned. “Let's talk about something happier now. Let's see if I can make you laugh,” Pete said determinedly. Mikey raised his eyebrows doubtfully, but watched him pick himself up and sit back down across from him. 

“I was thinking about getting a dog,” Pete said. “And I know you're a dog person, so maybe sometime we could go to a shelter and pick one out. I was thinking of naming it Bowie, how's that sound?” Mikey smirked but didn't laugh. Pete was getting the hang of it pretty quick. 

“Don't you have your girlfriend to do that with? I don't think my input will be nearly as valuable,” Mikey replied. Pete looked disheartened, and Mikey worried he struck a nerve. 

“Don't you have a girlfriend’s place to crash at?” Pete asked. Mikey didn't respond. “See Mikey? You’re my girlfriend.” That made Mikey laugh. He shook his head and shut his eyes, smiling and feeling abashed for doing so. 

“Okay, fine, maybe I'm your temporary girlfriend. But Bowie? Isn't that a little obsessive?”

“Yeah, you're totally right. I think Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the fourth is a much better name.” Mikey burst out laughing again, trying to hide his face in his hands. 

“I'm ever so glad my shitty humour still appeases you,” Pete chuckled. Mikey gave him the middle finger, Pete gasping animatedly. 

“That's not how you treat your girlfriend, Mikey!”

“I thought I was the girlfriend.”

“Duh, we’re lesbians.” The two divulged into a rather juvenile fit of giggles, neither caring about it in the slightest. Pete tried to regain control of the conversation, but he couldn't stop laughing at how terrible his ‘jokes’ were. 

“Okay, okay, wanna hear a joke Patrick told me a while ago? I don't remember if he was drunk or, like, stoned off his rocker, but he said this to me,” Pete took a breath. Mikey tried not to remember Pete’s prior conversation with Patrick and just enjoy what would likely be a terrible joke. “Patrick said to me, ‘Pete? Why did the chicken go down the slide?’”

“Why did the chicken go down the slide, Pete?” Mikey asked jokingly. 

“Well, let me tell you. I asked Patrick, why did the chicken go down the slide? And he said ‘BECAUSE THERE WAS JAM!’ And let me tell you, I have never seen Patrick laugh harder in his entire life.” Mikey put his face down on the table, trying not to cringe his ass of. 

“I'm not drunk enough for that to be funny,” Mikey concluded. Pete snorted in agreement, rubbing his eyes and trying not to look tired. Mikey was still smiling as he kept his eyes down, staring at the table. 

“Okay, let's end the night on a good note. One more joke. What did the self-absorbed loser say to the hermit?” Pete waited for Mikey to respond. 

“What did he say, Pete?”

“I miss you.” The room got quiet. Mikey looked up at him slowly, like he wasn't sure he heard what he thought he heard. Mikey had a lot of that going on. 

“That's not the end of the joke,” Mikey said. 

“It's not?” 

“No. You're forgetting what the hermit said back,” Mikey was whispering out of habit. 

“And what was that?”

“The hermit replied, ‘I miss you too’.” Pete smiled and sighed, and that sigh turned into a yawn, and Mikey’s stomach dropped. Pete indeed saw the way Mikey paled in an instant, and that concerned him. 

“You don't… Have to stay in the guest room if you don't want to. Everything here I'm willing to share with you,” Pete murmured. He stood and held out a hand for Mikey. 

“I'm not that tired. I probably wouldn't even fall asleep,” Mikey tried to rescind a decision he hadn't even made yet. 

“That's okay. My dad liked to say that it's better to lay down and rest, even if you're not tired. Your body is resting and that helps a lot, as it turns out. That's how I made it through tour,” Pete responded. 

“Oh, yeah,” Mikey’s sarcastic side shown through as he took Pete’s hand. “Because you did lots of laying down and just resting on tour. Mhm, sure.” Pete smirked a little at Mikey’s candour. Pete laced his fingers with Mikey’s and led him tiredly into his room. Pete dropped onto the bed immediately, laying his hands behind his head. Mikey paused for a moment, taking in the room. It was already so dark that he couldn't see the corners where things could've been hiding. He decided that was for the best, and sat down on the bed nervously. Pete eyed him in the darkness, watching the way he moved, how the mansion had affected him. Pete rolled onto his side and held out both arms for him. Mikey waited a moment to do anything, for maybe it was a joke offer? He didn't know much of anything anymore. He was tired, deathly tired, so he fell into Pete’s open arms and tried not to think about anything at all. 

“Wanna hear one more joke?” Pete mumbled, barely articulating. 

“Sure,” Mikey nodded. 

“Okay. What did the tired self-absorbed loser say to the hermit?” 

“I think the hermit is tired too. What’d he say?”

“I love you.” Mikey thought about that. It resonated in his ears like an echo, and he savoured every time he heard it. It was the first thing in a long time that felt good. 

“Learn to finish jokes,” Mikey said, after a couple of minutes had passed. 

“Hm?”

“Do you know what the hermit said back?”

“I have an idea,” Pete said, “but I'm not sure if it's correct.”

“What is it?” Mikey asked. 

“The hermit said ‘I love you too’.”

“See?” Mikey asked. “You do know how the joke goes.” Both smiled in the darkness, and Pete wrapped his arms around him a little closer, a little tighter. Mikey shut his eyes and his sleep deprivation hit him like a landslide. He was out before he knew what hit him. 

~

The next day was alright. The air felt clearer, at least from Mikey’s point of view, and his head wasn’t feeling all too bad either. The lingering endlessness that his paranoia sustained the previous day seemed to have subsided, which made him feel brighter to begin with. Having Pete around him didn’t hurt either, and Mikey really had to hand it to his practically unconscious self- he knew what he needed. While Pete was too underslept to actually get in the car and drive Mikey and himself to an animal shelter, he did make use of their day by using the internet to fill that void. Mikey watched fondly over him as he cooed at the pictures of the animals, acting as though he was unimpressed by how immature Pete was. Until, of course, Pete turned the computer and Mikey practically squealed. 

There was no more room for pizza in Mikey, of which Pete was courteous to, so a different form of take-out was ordered since Mikey didn’t find himself particularly interested in going into the world at dark. Their second dinner together was much less dismal than the first, largely brought upon by Mikey’s ability to keep the contents of his stomach in his stomach. Not only was their dinner fine, their evening was the best Mikey had had in weeks- and he did absolutely nothing. Pete lit a fire and they channel surfed until Pete’s eyes were shutting by themselves. Which may have only been around 8 o’clock. Either way, Mikey went to bed with him, deciding it was better not to take any chances. Pete’s bedroom hadn’t looked frightening in the least when Mikey awoke that morning, and in the dark it was something else. He wouldn’t have quite called it scary, more along the lines of intimidating. Intimidating his imagination, intimidating his senses, intimidating he lack of hallucinations that day. 

Without another thought on the matter, he crashed his head into the pillow, expecting sleep to find him as easily as it had found the past night. He was incorrect. Pete sank like a stone on the other side of the bed, snoozing to his heart’s content, while Mikey was less lucky. Tossing and turning wasn’t his style, not with his condition, so he stayed frozen and still until he hoped his fragility would lull him to sleep. While that didn’t exactly work, eventually he got tired of not being awake and passed out point blank. Up until the night terrors began. 

It started as a dream, the same kind of dream that was so common at the mansion, the same kind that usually seeped into the time he was awake as well. The iciness that started on his shoulder and made its way down his chest, until it was at the farthest points on his body, lacing him head to toe in cold sweat. His hair stuck to his forehead, creating a sense of being trapped, and twisting himself up in the blankets until he was chained in one spot. The sirens screaming bloody murder in his brain hissed and grabbed at his psyche, and in Mikey’s dreams he screamed for it to stop, for the smell of burning flesh to subside, for the fires ravaging his soul to wash away. All of that played on a constant loop in his mind, a perilous lock in his mind that he felt he was trapped in. Inside, he screamed for it to stop, and then he started screaming out of his dream as well. 

Mikey sat bolt upright, shouting and crying like all hell broke loose. Pete, who was awoken almost immediately, reached out to calm him but only accelerated his panic. Mikey leapt from the bed in an instant, flinging himself onto the floor and backing himself against a wall. Pete threw back the covers and stepped out of bed, not taking one eye off of the shaking figure on the floor.

“Mikey,” Pete whispered.

“GO AWAY! YOU’RE NOT REAL, I KNOW YOU’RE NOT REAL!” Mikey screamed back in hysteria. Pete took a knee and held out a hand, keeping his distance. 

“Yes, I am. I promise you, I am. It’s just me, Mikey, it’s just Pete.”

“You’re lying!” Mikey yelped, quieter, but not yet calm. 

“Why would I lie to you? I love you,” Pete reasoned. Mikey opened his mouth to resist, but found nothing to come back with. Still hyperventilating, he put a hand on his heart as his vision swimmed. Pete said nothing. Mikey swallowed harshly, bobbing his head as he breathed; in through his nose, out through his mouth. And then all of the sudden,

“I can’t breathe.” Pete looked questioningly at him, since Mikey was clearly breathing. But he knew the feeling. He sat down across from him, a few feet away from the whimpering man, and put his hands flat on the ground in between them. He took a deep breath as he looked at Mikey, expanding his shoulders and stomach slowly.

“Mikey, you can breathe. Be slow, be slow. In... out,” Pete murmured gently. Mikey resented the help at first, but his hands were violently shaking and he was losing the battle with fear. He shut his eyes gently and took breaths as slow as he could manage, until everything around him began to slow down. The screaming in his head settled down, the room stopped spinning, and his basic brain functions began to kick in. He let his legs drop and he groaned out a shaky sigh. He rubbed his eyes with his palms and shook his head disappointedly. 

“I'm sorry. I thought those would stop out of the mansion. Guess not. I'm so sorry,” Mikey whispered. Pete put a hand on his shoulder and smiled apologetically at him. 

“You don't have to apologize. What happened to you was… God, horrific! It deserves some outbursts. I'm sorry you went through that, Mikes. The good news is that now it's time to get better, and getting some sleep will definitely help,” Pete whispered gently. Mikey drew a shaky breath and leant back from the hand Pete held out for him. 

“I don't think I can go to sleep right now,” Mikey huffed. 

“Then what? Cereal?” Mikey’s eyes watered and Pete’s smiled dropped off of his face at the sight of him. 

“I don't know. Time, maybe.” Pete looked struck by the way Mikey’s statement made him feel. Something about how Mikey said it without looking him in the eyes reminded him of himself, and he wasn't sure he liked that. 

“Yeah. Sometimes I feel like that too,” he responded. “I just wish that I could pause the world so I could do what I need to do. Say what I need to say. There's never enough time in the day, is there?” Pete asked. Mikey leaned his head on Pete’s shoulder as he counted the seconds in which he breathed. Mikey couldn't find the words to tell Pete how much he agreed. 

“And then it's too late,” was all he said. Pete looked over at Mikey, who was suddenly looking back at him. Pete put a hand on Mikey’s cheek and stared into his glassy brown eyes. Mikey sniffed and squeezed the tears out of his eyes. They spilled down his cheeks as he leaned into Pete like his was a safe-hold. Pete’s lips parted and he leaned forward. In an instant Mikey closed the gap and sighed between Pete’s lips. As gently as a mouse, Pete pressed his lips shut against Mikey’s, dragging his fingertips across his cheek. Mikey put a hand flat on Pete’s chest and pushed his forehead onto Pete’s, so close they the two could feel each other’s heart beats. Mikey pulled back and licked his bruised lips, burning his face in the crook of his neck. 

Mikey’s teary eyes squeezed shut and he began all out sobbing on Pete’s shoulder. He cradled Mikey with his arms, tucking him close now that his state of panic was over. Pete rubbed his back softly, maintaining his own slow breathing in hopes of Mikey catching on. 

“Just calm down, it's okay. I'm right here, and- and I love you. You're okay, Mikey. The dream is over, you're back in reality,” Pete murmured. Mikey choked out a sob, not relieved in the slightest. 

“Reality is so much worse,” he cried. Shocked once again by his tone, Pete’s eyes watered up. 

“I know,” he mumbled. There was nothing nod to say after that. 

~

The nights that followed were worse than ever. After the dream, the morning sunlight didn't look the same for Mikey. He’d had solace in the daylight, but after his night terror, he couldn't find that same peace that had been ever so short lived. The days were iffy, but the nights were worse. For a few days, Mikey tried to sleep in fear of what he might see if he stayed up. Pete had already done him such a courtesy that he did not want to ask anything more of him, even if that meant nights in darkness and fear, alone. That only worked for so long. After two long, sleepless nights, Mikey passed out on the couch, only to wake not much later screaming and crying yet again. 

His body was ravaged by the attacks, both mentally and physically, and he could not afford to lose any more sleep. Despite how much he loathed his own weakness, as he thought of it, he couldn't stop his eyelids from weakening, his muscles from relaxing, his brain from shutting down. No matter how hard he tried, he always fell asleep. Not that he could ever stay that way. What's worse was how he could tell that Pete was trying to maintain his composure, but he could not act so calm for so long. He was tired and keeping up with Mikey’s frantic attitudes was exhausting. He'd lost track of the time, not that that was uncommon for him, but he wasn't prepared for Mikey’s presence to become a long term spectacle. The moment came after an especially long night, night terrors encompassing him twice in the lunar hours, wrecking both him and Pete to the core. Mikey looked up from the floor when the second one ended, sweaty and breathless.

“Pete? Remember how I said I'd tell you when I needed help?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I need help.” 

Nothing was done that night, except for the two falling asleep on the floor. Their bodies were no match for what came their way, and that night the both of them realized that. Mikey was appreciative that Pete let him have the day to pretend that the previous night hadn't happened, but he knew it would never last. As sunset hit and the quiet arose, it became most apparent that there was need for a discussion. 

“Mikey,” Pete spoke up casually, over dinner that night. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your terrors don't seem to subsiding. I want to help, do you know how I could?” Mikey looked up over his food, still sucking his line of sight under Pete’s careful watch. 

“Rehab.”

“What?” Pete spat. “I haven't seen you drink a single drop, and you're clearly not an addict-”

“This has nothing to do with addictions,” Mikey intoned. Pete gulped and furrowed his brow in concentration. 

“Oh…” Mikey waited for the question that almost always followed sentences like that. “Why didn't you just go in the first place?” There it was. 

“I didn't need rehab then. But… Clearly I need it now. I can go after dinner, leave just as it get dark. Just like I did before.”

“That was only when you slept on the Fall Out Bus, not-” Pete stopped. Mikey grinned shyly up at him, somewhat surprised that Pete actually remembered the good parts of tour. Maybe he was remembering, dealing with it. Mikey took that as a symbol for him to as well. 

“I can't believe you still call it the Fall Out Bus.” Mikey tried not to smile, he was sure it would've been the first of the day. 

“Stay as long as you want, Mikey-”

“I'll go soon. Promise you’ll give me a proper goodbye this time?” he requested. Hurt shone in Pete’s eyes from that comment. Mikey hadn't meant for it to hurt, but he realized there was no way it couldn't. A few words in lipstick didn’t account for months of falling in love. 

“I promise.”

 

~

Pete dropped the bags in the trunk of the taxi he’d called for Mikey, once the sun had gone down. He paid the taxi driver up front, and slapped a hand on the roof of the car. Mikey watched from the doorway, where he inhaled the fresh breeze in. He had not clue how long it would be until he'd get another experience like that one. All he knew was that that one had to last for all of that upcoming time. Pete wandered over and smiled. 

“How long will you be gone?” he asked. Mikey shrugged and looked away. He never was very good with goodbyes. 

“Okay, well, when you get out, you have to text me. I don't care how many drugs you're on, you're still more fun than any of my other friends.” 

Mikey couldn't help his next comment. It just sort of slipped out. 

“You have friends?” 

Pete glared at him. “That's rich, Mikey. Anyway, what I meant by that was I want you to know that I'll always have your back. You can come over and eat my cereal at 3 am any time. Or sleep in my bed. You know, whichever you prefer.” Mikey scoffed at his tone. 

“Good to know, Pete. I should get going. Thank you for your hospitality. I'm not sure what would've happened if I didn't have you. I-” he didn't know what to say. “I'll miss you.”

Pete smiled and pressed his lips onto Mikey’s for a brief second. 

“The self-absorbed loser will miss you too.” Mikey flipped him off once again as he trotted to the taxi. Pete waved to him as the car puttered off down the street, until only the glow of the street lamps illuminated Mikey’s dreams. He didn't know what to do, but maybe he'd find something along the way. Something to entertain him. Make him smile in the darkest light. Make him want to live again. Rehab was there for that reason. So was Pete. 

Maybe he'd already found that reason.


End file.
